


Justifications are Cheap Anyway

by Vrunka



Category: No More Heroes (Video Games)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Frottage, Kinda, M/M, Rough Sex, Things get weird
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-20 22:01:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17630456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vrunka/pseuds/Vrunka
Summary: It’s not like they want to be working together, but it’s the fastest means to an end. And Travis lends a hand because...well cuz a boner is a boner, even in cyberspace.





	Justifications are Cheap Anyway

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t even know if NMH has a real fandom...but Badman is hot in a gross disaster way and I can’t be stopped apparently so, here we go.

Cuz a boner is a boner, even in this weird pixilated, unreal reality.

Falling to his knees is second nature, an old habit from back when he was strapped for cash in the days before becoming the number one assassin. Back when he was a loser, washed out, half-baked nobody.

And now he’s a somebody.

But he’s a somebody who remembers how to suck a fucking cock.

“You want me to help you take care of that,” he asks. All crisp confidence, playing off his reputation. Number one goddamn assassin. He can taste the rage simmering off of Badman at his tone, practically visible in the rendered space around the two of them.

“You disgust me, fuckin’ punk,” Badman says.

But it isn’t no.

And Travis has always been good at collecting the scraps of things left unsaid, stitching them together into the shambling corpse of what he wants to hear. He reaches his hand forward and cups at the front of Badman’s jeans, presses his fingers expertly against the inseam and he doesn’t get smacked away.

So no is officially not on the table.

Travis scoots closer, on his fucking knees, allowing himself to remember the debasement, remember how easy this used to be for him. A pound of change pressed into his palm and bitter salt slick at the back of his throat. It’s been a long time, maybe it’s not like riding a bike and he’ll give this guy a rough fucking time of it. No way to know but to do it.

Everything is haloed in blue, auras and outlines from his glasses and fact that the very world around them is made up of light and data. The cans around Badman’s belt flash as Travis loosens it, slides it free. 

A boner’s a boner, and Badman’s got a hard-on practically glued to the front of his jeans. Bloodlust and tension and all that simmering rage just...just pressing there, impossible to miss. Travis’ fingers catch on the zipper and he watches the coding clip as he tugs it down and down each tooth until it’s low enough he can fish inside and—

And—

“What the fuck,” Travis says, pulling Badman’s pants off his hips and coming face to face with the censor bar.

‘Now Saving’ it says across it in no nonsense type face and Travis thinks about his own dick and about how he really hasn’t looked at it in this cyberspace their currently occupying. He takes a shit at the toilets when he’s gotta, but it’s been business, business so far.

“Guess they didn’t code it,” he says, “unless your dick always looks like this.” He glances up at Badman’s face. The guy’s blushing behind his stupid mask, got red cheeks beneath that dark, rough stubble.

He sucks a breath between his teeth, shakes his head. “It doesn’t,” he says and he sounds remarkably cool for someone who just discovered that the programmers replaced his junk with a six and a half inch bar of pixilated black.

Six and a half, Travis is...disappointed to say the least. He’s got his priorities in all the right places.

Badman shifts, kicks his foot out and presses it down on Travis’ crotch. The move is unexpected, catches Travis by surprise. Surprise is what he can blame the vulnerable, bubbling noise that escapes his throat on. Surprise is why he clutches at Badman’s knee, and thrusts back up against the pressure.

“Oh fuck,” he mutters. It certainly doesn’t feel like a censor bar in his own pants. It just feels like his cock, pressed flat by Badman’s foot, zipper of his jeans biting into the skin. Prickles the same way weak attacks from the bullshit enemies here prickle, not quite pain, not quite nothing.

Badman’s hand grabs at his face, fingers digging into Travis’ cheek. They feel grimy, dirt on the smooth leather to match the glittering sweat in Badman’s chest hair. All the little details in a row.

All the details except the most major.

Badman’s grip tightens, and Travis hears himself clucking some sort of disagreement. “Plenty of time to try and kill one another after we’re out of this game, don’t you think?” he asks, which as close as he’ll come to saying that the death-grip on his face hurts.

“Once I’ve got my wish, yeah, I’m going to kill you,” Badman says.

“Sure you will, big guy.”

Six and a half inches, wrong choice of nicknames. Badman’s foot grinds down and Travis is left shuddering, open-mouthed against his thigh. Spittle darkening the already dark material. Reminding him what’s at hand here, what’s at stake.

“You really could come from this,” Badman says. It’s not a question, not a real one; his tone is too steeped in absolute disgust. Assured revulsion. Travis almost could come from just this, it’s been a goddamn long time and he’s got the same adrenaline dopamine high coursing through his digitally rendered veins.

“The point was helping you out though, daddy,” Travis says and no, he doesn’t miss the way Badman’s fingers twitch at that. The full-bodied shiver that wracks through the man, edges of him going soft and blurry for a second.

“It feels like you’re touching my dick.”

“If you think I can work like this, you’re more delusional than I’d figured.” Travis lowers his hand, drums his fingers down the length of Badman’s thigh. Drums his fingers back up.

Problem solving has never been his strongest suit, but he’s resourceful; didn’t get where he is and has been without some pretty killer instincts. An intuition to fall back on. Or in this case to lean into.

He just hopes that whatever voodoo electric boogaloo magic the Death Drive MK II uses that it takes the cum stains out of fabric. He’s short enough on jeans that fit him right and certainly won’t have anything to fit Badman’s lumbering form.

“What are you doing,” Badman asks as Travis starts shoving the censor bar back into his pants. The zipper goes up as smoothly as it had lowered. Tooth by tooth. Same clipping frames, an error in the coding repeating; Travis wonders idly if his own zippers do the same thing, doesn’t have time to dwell on the thought though.

“I’m solving the problem.”

“Realize what a bad idea this actually is?”

Travis shakes his head and Badman has the decency to chuckle. His hand migrates, jostling the frame of Travis’ glasses and for a heart-stopping second, Travis thinks he’s going to pull them off. But the hand continues into his hair and the panic passes.

“Watch the fucking hairdo,” Travis says.

“Sure, kid,” Badman spits right back before sinking his fingers in and fisting them. Fucking—

“Fuckin’ dick—“ Travis manages before he’s pulled face first into Badman’s crotch. Now that it’s covered again, his cock looks normal once more. Thickening out just the left of Badman’s now redone zipper.

Travis plasters his lips against the bulge of it, changes tactics when he doesn’t get an immediate response and bares his teeth instead. Something more solid to get through the barrier of Badman’s stiff jeans. And that, that, that gets the reaction he was looking for; Badman groaning, stomach trembling under his tank top, muscles contracting.

His foot rolls against Travis’ cock and the pleasure singes deep, deep in Travis’ stomach. Blunt pleasure. Like a wrecking ball, an excavator. Un-fucking-subtle. And Travis loves it.

Like the good terrible old days; it thrills some little part of him he had written off as buried, as paid off. As no longer necessary. A reputation he couldn’t afford to boast as the number one assassin. But he’s retired from all that shit, he can indulge those old, old habits now in this weird video game, cyber reality. It helps that he fucking hates Badman.

He angles his head to suck hard, hard, hard at the crown of Badman’s dick, laving his tongue into the fabric. Mouthing and moaning and messy. There is a burst of faint salty flavor against his palette, hindered by the material, by the fact this isn’t really real.

It’s coded, stamina and HP and levels, it’s all coded and displayed for both of them to see. And so Travis has yet another excuse for how quickly he gets worked up and worked over by Badman’s foot. He cranes his neck back to take a gasping, shuddering breath just as Badman lifts his foot and stomps back down.

Stomps.

Not maybe as hard as he could but hard enough Travis hears the breath he had just taken escape him. He hears it leave him in a pained whoop.

“Fuck,” he says, puffing hard against the sodden material under his lips.

Badman chuckles again, breathless himself, scratchy sounding roughness, pushing all of Travis’ well-hidden buttons. Lighting them up as rapidly as Travis remembers them. Badman’s fingers lock harder and Travis groans, wishes they weren’t in this stupid place with its stupid fucking code so he could actually have Badman’s dick in him. Choking him as Badman drags him roughly up and down the length of it.

An idea for later.

For when they’re out of here.

Assuming Badman is game, is drunk enough to be game.

“Come on, fucker,” Badman goads. His jacket slips low, his biceps ripple. Fuckin’ pigeon on his tank top stares blankly into Travis’ eyes. Travis doesn’t know, cannot ascribe if Badman is talking to himself or to Travis.

Hands boxing in Travis’ ears, pressing close, close, close. Thigh against throat, boot to crotch. Because he needed this, they both needed this. Obviously.

Fucking obviously as Badman’s foot grinds down just right and Travis humps up into it and absolutely loses it. Orgasm leaking from him, spilling out of his digital cock and onto the digital code of his jeans and god, fucking God he hopes when they get sucked out of here and back to reality that it won’t be the horror show he can already feel.

Badman scoffs, a huff of disbelief maybe, all self-assured bullshittery aside. “Thought this was about me,” he says. And Travis would quip something very witty back he’s sure if his brain didn’t feel like it was wired all wrong, wrung out and cobbled back together by someone with no knowledge of the way code should work.

His mouth’s still kinda busy anyway, trying and failing at finding an angle that would have Badman growling and incoherent. Travis used to be good at this, he really, really did.

But it isn’t working.

And Travis doesn’t hate himself enough to keep throwing himself at a brick wall. Solutions, instincts. His gut—even this digital fake one—clenches at the thought of going further. Of letting Badman wreck his ass; the shameful stretch, the humiliating position. Another back burner thought, something not possible if the programmers want to keep playing Schrodinger’s dick.

Badman jostles and his zipper catches on Travis’ lip. In reality, he’d be bleeding over such a move, ripped skin. Here, in the Death Drive it just tingles. An echo of an echo of pain.

Travis pulls back with a dissatisfied hiss regardless.

“This isn’t working,” he says.

“No shit. Didn’t tell me how fuckin’ bad you were before we started.”

He doesn’t bother trying to defend himself. The circumstances speak for themselves. “Isn’t my dick that’s decided this game is rated T, daddy,” he says. And yeah maybe he’s fucking sulking a little bit, so what of it? Badman’s hand is still sunk in his hair, Travis can feel the way his fingers twitch. The way his lips quirk just slightly upward.

“Bet that doesn’t matter,” Badman says. His eyes glitter; in Travis’ glasses everything is glittering. Glowing and soft. “Bet you’ve always been bad at it. Thirsty little whore no one with an ounce of decency would touch.”

But Badman’s still very much touching him. Touching the both of them, capturing one of Travis’ hands in his free one and pressing the two of them against the twitching outline of his dick. Travis’ knuckles brush against the low-slung beer cans.

“Seem pretty handsy for all that talk.”

“I ain’t never been decent,” Badman says. There’s probably a lot to be unpacked there, if Travis gave a shit to; something very telling about Badman and the alcoholic behind the mask. A whole backstory to uncover. Thank fucking God Travis is nothing of an archeologist and a shit is about the last thing he gives for Badman and the person he was before he came bursting into Travis’ trailer.

He lets Badman move their hands, lets himself be led. It’s just as rough as he’d expected; short, vicious strokes to get the feeling through the fabric. Badman grunts after a minute of it, his hand twists in Travis’ hair.

“Tell me I’m right,” Badman says, voice tight and high from between his teeth. Something shredded, strangled. “Filthy, degenerate little cocksucker.”

“That what you think I am?”

“Shit—“ Badman’s jaw clenches so hard Travis can hear the teeth grinding. The clip, clicking of them. Biting the end of that curse real hard. “Shit, I know you are.”

Travis licks his lips, teasingly. Pressing upward into that punishing grip in his hair. He won’t say it, won’t give Badman the satisfaction. It’s stark and apparent enough with him here on his goddamn knees for it.

And Badman must know it to, isn’t as stupid as all that. He shudders once, breath catching over an inhale, sharp and sibilant. Beneath their palms his thighs are trembling. His body arches; wobbles like a top, swaying forward, tipping back.

Short, vicious.

Six and a half goddamn fuckin’ inches.

Travis pulls his hand back. Foreign moisture on the oddly smooth plane of his palm. Slickness like a memory more than something actually present, another catch in the coding. Telling darkness is still spread across the front of Badman’s jeans though. Travis hazards a glance down to his own lap and flinches.

For a moment, just a moment, the two of them are silent, still. There’s no money to change hands this time, nothing to the end of this that’s familiar to Travis at all. He pinches the bridge of his nose, fixes his glasses from where they had fallen slightly low.

His beam katana is still laying where he’d dropped it when he crashed to his knees. He picks it up, flicks it back and forth for good measure. Testing the charge, covering this weird and awkward silence with the cheery little chime.

“We have a level to finish,” he says.

Even under the mask, Travis can see Badman’s eye roll. “I didn’t fucking forget, dumbass,” he says. “I’m going to get my daughter back, if it’s the last thing I do.”

“Sure you will,” Travis says and just because he can, he adds a cocky grin. A wink. Badman flushes, the color spreads across his exposed collar, along the corded lines of his throat.

If it’s the last thing he does and it may very well be; it’s not called the Death Drive for nothing. Travis isn’t fully sure he expects them both to make it through this thing. Isn’t sure he cares either way if they do. But there’s plenty of time between then and now regardless. Plenty of time.

Plenty of it.

**Author's Note:**

> As always I’m on Twitter @drunkavrunka so stop in and say hello if you’d like.


End file.
